


Progress is Painful

by SubspaceAlien



Series: Coping Techniques [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Roller Coaster, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, John is rightfully angry, M/M, Masochist, Sherlock's having a rough time, Spanking, save me from myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 22:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12781482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubspaceAlien/pseuds/SubspaceAlien
Summary: There are some bumps in the road





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic starts abruptly. No worries, you didn’t miss anything. This one is... Kind of a lot. It's Sherlock POV, and I really prefer writing John better... But this was necessary. Like I've said before, this stuff is personal to me and if it resonates with anyone else, I'm happy to show you you're not alone. Future installments (if there are any) will be more like the rest, less of this 'mostly what's in Sherlock's head' focus.

Sherlock had been still and silent the entire cab ride home. His face had been held in a very careful, cool mask as his eyes stared straight out the window, not even tracking motion on the way past. As John led the way up the stairs to their flat, Sherlock’s mind was still buzzing with thoughts and emotions that had been with him all evening, worse now than ever and still rising. He was drowning in them, and yet as he tried to regain control over himself he realized that he couldn’t understand what was in his mind. He seemed to be keeping his thoughts from himself, blocking them out and shoving them out of sight. This was what John had been trying to tell him about, Sherlock realized. He had been suppressing things for a long time now, and now that he was trying to own them, he found that he lacked all the tools necessary. 

That’s where John comes in, he tried to tell himself. Trust him. Listen to him. Anger flared up at his own instructions, at the thought that anyone knew better about his own inner workings. That was absurd. And yet…

And yet, John was here, staring at him in a manner of authority. Sherlock realized that they were in the flat, the door to the hall shut and bolted already. He shifted his body posture to loosely mimic John’s, crossing his arms and widening his stance just a bit. Now was the time to determine how to handle this- trust John and face consequences, or stand up for himself. But if he tried to defend his actions, what would he even say? Before he could lay out any line of defense, John took a step toward him. 

“ You lied to me, Sherlock.” The condemnation made Sherlock flinch, his face turning to the side. It offered John a good view of the handprint he had left on Sherlock’s cheek. The fact that it was still red made John deeply uncomfortable, but he didn’t regret putting it there. It had been the right call. 

Sherlock drew in a breath, still looking to the side of John. Everything inside him had been shoved down by the accusation, and he now felt exposed, with nowhere to hide. “Yes.” 

“And you neglected to clue me in, breaking your promise to me, and instead went off to cut yourself up.” 

This time Sherlock didn’t hesitate. “Yes, that’s true.” He had no power in this situation, no understanding of what was in his own head, and couldn’t come up with any plan to get him out of this situation. Until one of those things happened, honestly seemed best. 

“Are you even sorry?” Sherlock knew that John was trying to control his anger, but it was clear in the question spat in his direction. The two options, to submit or to fight, both suddenly leapt into his mind, and he was briefly exposed to the flood of thoughts again before he shoved everything back down. He worried at his lip for a moment. Honesty. That would keep things simple. He brought his eyes back to meet John’s. 

“No.” 

Confusion and anger exploded in John before he got control over them, carefully wrestled back behind his tight façade. He knew that showing too much of what he was feeling would overwhelm Sherlock, push him into a corner. But God, how could Sherlock have put him in this situation? If some anger showed, perhaps that was good. He needed to know. But John had watched the struggle on Sherlock’s face, and there had been no malice in his answer, no aggression. Just a statement of truth, without backing down and hiding from it. At least he was being truthful now. And that look in Sherlock’s eyes. Once the cold mask had fallen away, John could see the plea evident in his eyes. It was like Sherlock was being consumed, lost in it. 

Sherlock was losing the battle of keeping everything shoved down. It was still building, still rising, and even under the scrutiny of John, he was prepared to do anything to escape this pressure. He needed to hit something, drink something, shoot something, anything, just to get away from it. A frustrated scream tried to form, but he swallowed it down with the precious reserve of dignity he had left. This wouldn’t even be happening if John had just left him alone in the bathroom. 

“This isn’t about to be a lesson about coping skills, Sherlock,” John was saying. “I’m not trying to change your emotions or what feels like the truth to you. This is just the pain that you’re obviously desperate for.” 

It felt like a punch to Sherlock’s gut, the truth of the statement landing hard. He was desperate, and he was clearly fucked up, already beginning to stiffen in his trousers. Sherlock didn’t feel particularly aroused (actually, maybe if he looked closely at all those thoughts trying to suffocate him, he was aroused), what he did feel was shame. Disgust at himself. He knew he would be willing to do anything in this moment for that pain. Not that John would ever abuse that power, but the harsh truth about himself was in itself a punishment. He felt like a whore. 

His attention was snapped back to John as he pulled his phone from his pocket, and brought it to his ear as it began ringing. A phone call, now? Really? That scream threatened to break free again, and Sherlock barely managed to keep it in this time. No, he thought, trust John. Trust him. If this is punishment, take it. Do anything he wants. 

John’s face, which had been watching Sherlock coolly, became animated as he rushed out, “Molly, don’t be mad at me, alright? Trust me, I-“ He broke off abruptly, interrupted. Sherlock hated that he could barely make out her tone of voice, let alone what she was saying. John made a surprised “huh,” then nodded as he listened. “Yeah,” he agreed, “something like that. Yeah, you’re welcome, thanks to you too. Bye now.” A smile lingered on his lips as he put the phone back into his pocket, but it slipped off completely as he returned to the task at hand. 

“Really?” Sherlock snapped under the returned attention, “You took time to call her now?” 

The look on John’s face honestly made him wish he hadn’t said anything. The sharpness of it. There was very little softness to John at all right now. “Well Sherlock, I think we made her pretty worried when she heard me hit you in the bathroom, and especially so when we ran off right after, don’t you?” Sherlock looked to the side and didn’t answer. “When I worry my friends and tell them I’ll call them, I like to keep my promises.” 

Sherlock had barely been aware of such a promise, too shaken up by events that had taken less than three minutes to unfold. The day had been getting to him, and John had been picking up on it. Trying to manage him like a child. All that had done was push Sherlock further into feelings of inadequacy (oh yes, that one was getting easier to identify) that had compounded with the general frustration of a shitty day. Somehow, everything had just progressed until they reached the morgue where they had an appointment with Molly. Knowing they were a bit behind, Sherlock had seized the moment when he knew John would be more focused on making the meeting than micromanaging Sherlock. He had peeled away from John in the hallway, casually remarking on using the loo. John hadn’t hesitated. 

Upon finding himself alone at last in a deserted bathroom and safely in the largest stall, Sherlock brought out the case of razor blades he hadn’t known why he grabbed that morning. It was in his hand and he was staring at it when John had burst into the bathroom, calling his name. Sherlock had felt a flare of anger, and snapped, “What?” John had seemed to hesitate at the aggression, perhaps second-guessing himself. There was a sound of shifting clothing as Sherlock realized that John was stooping to see where he was in the stall. Fuck. He was nowhere near the toilet, and facing the wrong way. 

The door had come crashing in as John kicked it and flung his arm out to hold it flush against the stall wall. Sherlock could still clearly see the evaluating look on John’s face, calculating and competent, before he had taken a few strides and brought his palm against Sherlock’s cheek. The case of razor blades had fallen to the floor, only to be snatched up and slipped into John’s pocket. After that was a bit of a blur to Sherlock, but he did have a hazy recollection of Molly’s shocked face when he was led out of the bathroom and straight into a cab that would take them home. 

And now, in their home, John was walking toward him. Sherlock had been so caught up in his thoughts that he actually took a startled step backward, but John was apparently ready for that. His hand shot out and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s hair, pulling Sherlock’s ear down to his mouth. John growled, “Remember, this stops immediately if you need it to. What’s the word?” 

Sherlock fought his way through the rush of relief and arousal enough to weakly reply, “Medic.” 

John nodded once and stepped away, releasing his hold. “Strip.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient, as with all amateur authors my life does tend to get very crowded. I edited the note at in chapter one, explaining why this installment is so Sherlock-heavy. I might shift back to John in the next chapter...I do prefer writing from his point of view. This chapter was important to me, though.

Sherlock did as he was told. He would have done anything John said. Anything. There was none of the effortless grace that usually dictated his movements, only desperation that had him tripping over his own movements. He was already feeling the tide rising again within him after the initial relief at John taking control. He had the promise of rescue now, but every second he had to wait was swiftly becoming agony. Now that he was fully naked there was no distraction, nothing to busy himself with. Sherlock tried to focus on the present, to ground himself. John seemed to be watching him, evaluating him. What did he see? Sherlock began cataloguing. 

He noted with surprise that he was standing defensively, presenting his shoulder and hip to John, hiding behind his long bones and presenting a visually smaller target. Hiding, yes. Hiding because of his feelings of humiliation and of deep shame. Suddenly those two were very easy to identify within himself, separating from the overwhelming mass to suffocate him. Sherlock felt himself being swallowed easily, but was unprepared to come out the other side to find…a sliver of genuine quiet. Relief and gratitude toward John. There was a certain peace to hitting a brick wall, to being stopped by an immoveable object. It was a forced opportunity to take a vacation from perfectionism. Sherlock knew, somewhere deep in himself, that he was supposed to let go at this point and give himself completely to John. 

He turned to completely face John, face and eyes downcast. Arms loosely at his sides. Submissive. 

John broke the silence. “You can forget about that, Sherlock, I can tell you that right now.” Sherlock felt nothing but anxious confusion until he realized that John was indicating his penis, at which point a contradictory rush of shame and defensiveness erupted. He hadn’t noticed that he was fully erect. A glance darted up into John’s face confirmed the disapproval in his voice. 

“I…” Sherlock hesitated, then forced himself on, “I don’t get to choose, John. It’s how my body reacts sometimes, I did warn you.” He felt his shoulders hunch in slightly, trying to shrink into something that couldn’t be perceived as combative. 

He was rewarded with a gentle hum that denoted John thinking. Eventually John responded by ordering, “Be sure not to make a mess.” And then almost too quiet for Sherlock to hear, “At least then you’ll have less endorphins to hide behind.” 

Sherlock didn’t have the wherewithal to understand the implications. He couldn’t even focus fully on John’s words. That wasn’t good. Focus. Fucking focus! John must have noticed the shift, because his next words were firmly stated short sentences. Walk to your chair, face it. Hands on the arm rests. Forearms on the arm rests, bend at the waist. Spread your feet. John’s voice was the only thing that still felt important until he felt John’s hand descend on his naked back. 

Sherlock tried not to flinch, terrified that John would take the gentle contact away. Now that he had a physical touch to focus on it became his whole world. John’s hand made a broad, slow circle of his upper back, not affectionately, but still comforting. Grounding. It moved down to his lower back and slowed, and Sherlock had the wandering thought that John was looking at his arse. He straightened his legs before he could help himself. Presenting a better view. A better target. 

One last urgent thought addressed to himself: Don’t hide your reactions. It pleases John to see your reactions. Then the touch left his lower back, and a moment later contact was made against the meat of his arse cheek. Sherlock grunted and pushed his forearms into the armrests, straining his muscles. Panic tried to rise up as he realized that was the hardest John had ever made the initial hit, and would only be increasing the force from there. However, it was too late for second thoughts. 

John waited (how long? Three seconds? Thirty?) before bringing his palm against Sherlock’s other cheek. Harder. Sherlock couldn’t have held in his moan of “haaah” if he had tried. Both impact sites were already flushing, warm and tingling and almost itchy. And it fucking hurt. The blows then came steadily, roughly five seconds apart. 

Before the pain of one hit could fully recede the next one would land, like how waves on a beach would retreat only to be crashed over by the following wave. In this scenario, all of the forces tormenting Sherlock’s mind were represented by the sand underneath. As one wave drew back, the thoughts were closer, more visible, within reach. Then the next wave of pain would come and provide distance, a barrier. And then it too would recede. These waves, this beach of limitless sand, became almost as real to Sherlock as his own mind palace, meticulously designed and created. 

Any distance from the sand, from the emotional pain, was blessed to Sherlock, allowing him room to relax and recover from the onslaught. He basked in the physical pain, wishing for more but scared that it would be too much to take. But that was John’s decision, anyway, and not on Sherlock’s own shoulders. Even that knowledge let him feel safer, protected from himself. 

Sherlock was beginning to be pulled out to sea by the waves, the sand still visible but not nearly as close. Now it was just the physical pain. Nothing but physical pain. Oh, fuck. The relief from mental anguish had, until now, let Sherlock ignore the fact that physical pain was overwhelming in a different way. Now he felt the full bodily effects that had been building, his tensed muscles, whimpers and pants falling from his mouth, tears in his eyes and on the seat under his head. There was no beach, only a metaphor for a man desperate not to feel his pain to hide in. Fuck. 

He opened his mouth to beg for mercy, but instead what he pleaded for was “More, John, oh god please more.” Once the words were out, Sherlock realized that he meant it. Even as he wished desperately for respite, he craved more, harder, faster, everything. Anything. 

And then the next blow didn’t come. 

Sherlock’s knees buckled for a moment at the lack of expected contact. Every inch of his skin that had been struck now buzzed terribly, blood just under the surface boiling. His heart dropped. Had he ruined it by trying to dictate the process? Was that the end? It couldn’t be, please, John couldn’t lead him this far and then leave him alone. Could he? But he wouldn’t, not John. Sherlock needed to be able to trust John. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t-

Sherlock yelled as John’s belt struck across both cheeks at once. And just like that, more powerful waves than before tore him completely from the sandy metaphor. There was nothing but the pain rolling him around between blows, nothing but his own sobs and shaking body, nothing but the ever-solid presence of John, John who was saving him. Who loved him. Each blow from the belt was an intensely bitter-sweet gift. 

Floating freely now, Sherlock’s attention finally acknowledged how his arousal had progressed. His cock was throbbing almost painfully, and his hand twitched in instinct to wrap it around himself. Of course that was not an option. It remained clawed against the armrest. He could behave. Actually, Sherlock felt like he was inching toward climax anyway, each wave of fresh pain adding to the familiar sense of warm electricity in his groin. 

Acting on instinct, Sherlock watched his own hand fly toward the box of tissues on the side table, then rush to his dick as orgasm took him by surprise, sad in its brevity and lack of satisfaction. The tissue caught most of his come, as John had ordered, but a few drops did make it to the chair. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care in this moment. He was still being hit with weak pulses that shot from his stomach to his cock. It was all he could do to keep his legs straight, trembling and unsteady as they felt now. 

The belt had gone, but John had continued spanking him by hand through his orgasm, Sherlock realized belatedly. John’s other hand was braced against his bare side and there was safety and care promised in that simple gesture. As much as Sherlock yearned to lean into that, he was horrified to find himself begin to struggle, one hand rising from the armrest and moving as if to push John away. John seemed prepared for that, however, and smoothly grabbed the arm and twisted it behind his back. The blows continued. 

John didn’t reprimand him, only growled out, “Take it properly, Sherlock.” And Sherlock tried. He had withstood torture much more severe than a spanking from people a lot more vicious than John, but this was something else entirely. This wasn’t just rising above the pain, out of the situation. This pain had a purpose and wasn’t to be ignored. The raging heat and sting on his skin, the tears leaking down his face, the pinched feeling in his shoulder, they all had a purpose. 

Sherlock’s stomach dropped as he looked with new sobriety on his actions earlier. Why the fuck had he grabbed the case of razor blades? Why the fuck hadn’t he said anything, anything at all to John? Not for the first time, Sherlock felt afraid of his past actions. They weren’t as logical as they had felt at the time. Now he could see the reality, why? Because of pain? Because he had orgasmed? Did he really need John just to be able to see clearly? That thought was utterly terrifying, and unacceptable. It made him feel helpless. He felt a new kind of tremble in his body, not the weakness of climax or the instinctual urges to escape this pain. It was fear. Quieter than he meant to by far, Sherlock managed to breathe out, “John?” 

There was no response beyond the continued blows on his ravaged skin, and maybe a slight tightening on his wrist still held behind his back. “John!” There was a different feeling to his crying now, it wasn’t just a bodily reaction to pain anymore. Sherlock felt regret, he felt fear, and he wanted John to know how he felt. “John, I’m sorry,” he sobbed, “I am. I wasn’t, but I am. I see now. John please, I swear, I’m sorry!” An ugly, wet gasp punctuated his words as Sherlock’s chest jerked erratically. He let out a broken-sounding sob as John struck him twice more, and then stopped. The hand that had been delivering punishment now fell softly on his lower back, caressing gently. It wasn’t exactly loving, but it did help ground Sherlock as the pain seemed to swell for a moment before it began the slow process of receding. 

”John…” Sherlock drew in a shaking breath before confessing, “I know now I shouldn’t have brought…that. I don’t know why I did. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I shouldn’t have lied to you, John, and I should have asked you for help. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.” John eased his grip on Sherlock’s wrist, allowing him to replace it on the armrest while sobs took over his vocabulary. 

“Shh, Sherlock,” John gently broke his silence, hand still soothing over Sherlock’s abused skin. “I know. And you realizing that is good. My feelings are still hurt, do you understand?” Sherlock nodded, still bent over the chair. “I’m not going to leave you, Sherlock. I do need you to rebuild the trust that you’ve broken, though.” John gently maneuvered Sherlock into a sitting position on his chair, his face pressed to John’s jumper. His hands cradled Sherlock’s head to hold it in place as the detective cried quietly. 

The two of them didn’t speak as Sherlock’s breathing slowly evened out, his chest moving more fluidly. The tears that initially dampened the soft fabric finally stopped, and the only movement from either of them was from deep breathing. They were both obviously exhausted. After some minutes of that, Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke in a remarkably stable voice. 

”I promise, John. I will work on this. It’ll be difficult for both of us I imagine, but I will rebuild this trust, I swear. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, and the pain I’m likely to cause in the future.” 

John stiffened a bit, but accepted the apology. “Thank you. I think you’re right on all counts, Sherlock. I think you have a lot of work to do, but I believe you’ll honestly work at it now.” He bent down and gave Sherlock a kiss, brief but with no reservations. “Go to bed now.” 

Doing as he was told, Sherlock walked nude through the flat to his bedroom. He felt exposed in a way that he never did naked, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Did he have to make anything out of it tonight? Honestly, all Sherlock wanted now was sleep. He felt used up, utterly exhausted. One last stop before bed, though: Sherlock stopped in front of his mirror and looked over his shoulder at his reflection, admiring the proof of John’s care across his skin. The colors standing out against the pale canvass were beautiful to him, even as it still throbbed and stung. Every blow to his backside had been given to save him from himself, to snap him back to reality. Who else would do that for him but John? Who else would he want to? Who would he let see him like this? No, now that he had tasted this with John, nothing else would do. 

Not bothering to pull back the covers, Sherlock fell face-first onto his bed. He was blissfully asleep in moments, only vaguely aware that sometime later someone was briefly in the room with him. Before Sherlock could fully awaken, John had covered him with a blanket and dropped a kiss on his head, and then left. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Making safer choices?? Well done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, I've been going THROUGH it. 2018, huh? What a year. You can probably tell from the content shift that I'm personally in a much healthier place. This work continues to be a very personal reflection, and honestly I'm not sure if I'll continue it. Maybe a fun lil epilogue story. Really, like when I first posted part one, I suppose it'll be up to the response. Hopefully if this resonates with you, you can find some reassurance and understanding in this series. Love ya, mwuah

John wasn’t sure exactly how it would all come up again, but he wasn’t surprised when Sherlock showed up looking particularly defeated and uncomfortable the next morning while John was watching telly on the couch. He mumbled something while avoiding looking in John’s direction, instead fiddling with the sash of his robe. His silky pyjama bottoms shifted as he took an aborted step toward John, then coughed instead and stayed where he was. 

“I didn’t catch that, you’ll have to speak up.” John made a point to use his ‘doctor voice’, the steady and professionally warm voice that promised good care without judgement. 

Sherlock did look up then, catching John’s gaze for a moment. There was a carefully controlled desperation in his eyes. John’s gut clenched for a moment, hating to see his dear detective in any kind of pain…But Sherlock needed him to be strong. So he would be. He stayed still and quiet, waiting until Sherlock spread his palms briefly in surrender and rasped out something that sounded like, “Please just be in charge of me for a while.” 

Nodding once to show he understood, John calmly ordered Sherlock to fetch the lotion from the bathroom counter. His voice left no room for hesitation or argument, and Sherlock looked relieved to have something to do as he moved to do as he was told. Once he came hurrying back with the ‘sensitive skin, fragrance free, nothing fancy or offensive whatsoever’ lotion that John preferred Sherlock once again looked lost. 

John had no problem taking the lead. “Come sit here,” he instructed, pointing to the space on the hardwood floor between his own knees. The detective greedily scooped up the order, arranging himself on his knees facing John with his palms gently on John’s thighs. The heat in Sherlock’s eyes shot through John, and he had to firmly ignore his own impulses as he took Sherlock’s face between his hands and lead Sherlock to bow his head so John could place an affectionate kiss on the unruly curls on top. “Now turn around, sit on your bottom.”

Sherlock seemed confused but did as he was told, snuggling his back up to the couch between John’s legs, crossing his own long legs. His arse stung when he put his body weight on it, but orders were orders. When John slid one of his slippered feet into Sherlock’s lap, sole side up, Sherlock patiently waited until he received further instructions. He didn’t have long to wait. “Use the lotion, Sherlock, I rather fancy a foot rub.”

Sighing in gentle relief, the detective carefully removed the slipper from John’s foot, placing it respectfully next to himself on the floor and rubbing some lotion between his hands to warm it before smoothing it onto the sole of John’s foot. John’s lips quirked as he suppressed any ticklish reaction he might have. He was glad that Sherlock couldn’t see his face in this moment. Once Sherlock’s deft fingers moved with a little more confidence John let his hand drift to Sherlock’s scalp, rewarding and comforting with a light massage of his own. He was careful not to distract Sherlock’s efforts, however. He knew how delicate things still were at this early, uncertain time. 

Sherlock tried to focus on the structure of John’s ligaments and muscles, on the form of the bones that propelled the doctor through his daily life. There was a sense of order here, and it was calming to get lost in naming the anatomical parts while cataloging the small shifts and noises coming from John. Sherlock knew he was keeping his Captain-esque composure up for Sherlock’s sake, and he appreciated it. He appreciated the affection of the gentle head massage as well. Sherlock could still feel it, the overwhelming and vague force that had been there when he woke up. The foreboding feeling that had been at once familiar and yet unexamined and unknown, and therefore terrifying. Sherlock Holmes did not run from such things, he faced them head on stubbornly and bravely. But he had failed when he tried that approach before with this particular beast. It clouded his judgement, he knew that. And now John knew that as well. They were both aware that Sherlock was here, at John’s feet, because it had showed up again and Sherlock had not sought his own release but had run to John for structure and protection. 

The word failure rang through Sherlock’s head. It strengthened his sense of shame, his embarrassment and the feeling of being trapped. It got louder and louder and he tried to ignore it but his chest was getting tighter and-

Sherlock gasped roughly as John abruptly tightened his grip on Sherlock’s curls, keeping the tension up until Sherlock’s fingers started moving again. He hadn’t realized he had stopped. John let up on his hold and sat back in the couch, leaving Sherlock to carefully and lovingly replace the slipper on the foot he found himself embarrassingly compelled to kiss. He resisted the urge. As Sherlock repeated the process on John’s other foot, this time sans head massage, he found himself sobering up in a way. John’s intervention had jolted him from his thoughts and Sherlock put effort into maintaining that newfound clear-headedness. 

Beyond embarrassment or the feeling of failure, Sherlock realized that he now in this moment felt understood. He felt seen and accepted by John, he felt safe and taken care of. Usually there would have been a sense of deep shame, of burdening John with this so soon after the last event, but there were facts to examine. The facts told Sherlock that this had been what he failed to do yesterday. Because of his failure to follow protocol put in place for his own safety, John had punished Sherlock. John’s actions told Sherlock, much as he was hesitant to believe, that this is what John wanted Sherlock to do. He wanted Sherlock to turn to him in times of need. This was deeply uncomfortable to Sherlock, as he had prided himself on being more or less independent since childhood and he was startled to find himself relying on anyone. He felt uncertain, to be sure, but was surprised and relieved to find that he did not feel guilty by turning to John. 

When Sherlock wrapped up his tender care of John’s second foot and replaced the slipper, John leaned foreword and took the bottle of lotion from next to Sherlock. Without a word he slid Sherlock’s robe down his shoulders, exposing tender pale flesh that was now at attention with goose skin. John felt Sherlock’s racing heartbeat as he also warmed lotion between his palms before smoothing his hands down the sides of Sherlock’s long neck. A sigh came whooshing out of the willowy frame between his feet, and John smiled. The tension slowly drained from Sherlock’s neck and shoulders as John deftly worked his way through the knots and the areas where his detective chronically carried copious amounts of stress. Sherlock, lost in bliss and comfort, still noted that if John happened to initiate something more then he would not be inclined to deter him…But for now, Sherlock felt too melted, too languid to alter the current course. 

John went methodically over Sherlock’s neck and shoulders, much as Sherlock had done to his feet, until he was satisfied. He forced his hands to leave Sherlock’s skin, much as he didn’t want to, and he sat back once more into the plush couch back. It was his job to maintain boundaries still, and that was something John took very seriously. For his part, Sherlock took the end of the massage with dignity and acceptance, simply shrugging his shoulders back into his robe and then leaning his head gently against the inside of John’s knee. 

They sat like that, just watching the telly in comfortable silence. Sherlock’s continued submissive positioning was an apology for his failings yesterday, a show of gratitude for the support today, and a promise to honor John moving forward. Both men understood that. John settled his hand on top of Sherlock’s head after a while, not massing or a reward, but a claim. Part of Sherlock wanted to resist it, wanted to buck the claim off and run, but it was a small part. Mostly, being claimed made his chest feel tight and warm. He felt loved. 


End file.
